My father had an infuriating way of disappearing into his own private place, where he couldn't hear a word I said, even when I stood right beside him. He was usually studying for a sermon or a lecture at his desk in my parents' bedroom. As a proud third grader, I rushed right up to his elbow after dinner to report on my news of the day. It always went the same way:
"Daddy?" No answer. "Daddy?"
"Mmm."
"I got an "Excellent" on my reading test today." No answer.
"Daddy."
"Mmm."
"Can you hear me?
"What is it, son?
"I was telling you about my good grade today."
"That's nice."
"Thanks Daddy, I'm going to bed now." No answer.
He didn't notice when I turned to leave. I always glanced back just in case. He never looked up. I backed out of the room both sad and peeved.
After a while I learned to catch him when he came in the apartment door or was in the bathroom shaving. His ears opened up during those moments and we talked, father and son. But I never tried to speak with him again when he sat at his desk with his important papers and underlines. That was his other world, where sons did not exist.
